


a view to the sea

by shoebox_addict



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Do It With Style Mini Bang (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, No Smut, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repression, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), another leaving london fic, could be read as ace or demi, crowley expresses love through real estate, graphic descriptions of soft hugs, i cannot be stopped, the sea air really is a curative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25549552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoebox_addict/pseuds/shoebox_addict
Summary: “Have you ever been to Brighton?”“Can’t say that I have."“Lovely place. I was there once in the eighteenth century, back when everyone was taking sea air as a curative. Someone upstairs got the bright idea to dole out some blessings and try to encourage a spiritual awakening. Complete nonsense, didn’t work at all. But it was a lovely weekend.”[Written for the Do it With Style "Mini Bang" event.]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 154
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	a view to the sea

**Author's Note:**

> Well, folks, would you believe I started writing this fic at the very beginning of the year? It was an idea that I really loved, and then quarantine happened and my motivation was gone. Luckily, I found the Good Omens Mini Bang. That is the only reason this is finished and you’re reading it right now. I hope you like it! 
> 
> A billion, zillion thanks to the mods of the Mini Bang, to @jesswantsitall for the beta read, and to @deutschhaus for the absolutely beautiful art piece you’ll see about halfway through the story. Take it from me -- zoom in on this gorgeous image and look at the details. I can’t thank him enough for taking such care in bringing Aziraphale’s snug/library to life.

_“When anxious, uneasy and bad thoughts come, I go to the sea, and the sea drowns them out  
with its great wide sounds, cleanses me with its noise” — Rainer Maria Rilke_

It happened over a lovely red, two half-empty glasses held in two very different (and yet quite similar) hands.

“What do you think of leaving London?”

Aziraphale stopped twirling his wine glass, and some of the impeccable Bordeaux sloshed onto his rug. “Leaving London?”

Crowley shrugged his shoulders, instantly embarrassed at having brought it up. “Yeah. Just a thought, just thinking out loud.” 

“I thought you liked the shop,” said Aziraphale, his tone almost accusatory. 

It was true that Crowley was far more fond of the dusty, musty shop than perhaps he should be. In fact he’d scarcely left the shop since they’d returned from their celebratory lunch at the Ritz. Aziraphale had invited him back, they’d had several glasses of wine, and Crowley had waited for the polite and customary look from the angel that meant he should go home. But the look had never come, and Crowley had instead fallen asleep on the sofa in the back room. Since then he’d found it rather difficult to leave. 

“‘Course I do,” he said, taking a large sip of wine. “Just thought...you know. Maybe a change of scenery…”

Judging by the frown on Aziraphale’s face, this mumbled reasoning would not suffice. Crowley shrunk inward, cursing the way the wine had pushed him into bringing this up. It was something he’d been considering for days, especially after catching Aziraphale peering out the front window of the shop suspiciously. But now he wondered if he’d imagined that, gathering information where there was none to support his own sudden need to flee. 

For Crowley it had all come on rather quickly, beginning with that first night spent on the back room sofa. Though he’d been pleasantly abuzz with wine and their meandering conversation, Crowley had jolted awake from a nightmare after what felt like ten minutes of sleep. In his mind, he’d returned to the blazing bookshop, with flames all around him and Aziraphale nowhere in sight. It had felt so real that Crowley had struggled to believe the shop was still standing around him. 

Crowley opened his mouth to explain this all to Aziraphale, trusting that the words would come if he just started talking. But Aziraphale cut him off, “Actually, I think a change of scenery could be good.”

“I -- what?” 

Aziraphale stared down into his glass and sighed heavily. “Yes, I...well, you know I love this old place. But I find that it...well, I keep expecting Gabriel to pop in again. I know it’s foolish, but I can’t shake the feeling that he knows where to find me. They all do."

“Oh,” said Crowley, rather dumbstruck. It was one thing to suspect the angel was feeling skittish around his old stomping grounds. It was quite another to have those suspicions confirmed. 

“It’s silly,” said Aziraphale, shaking his head, his cheeks turning red from more than just the wine.

“It’s not,” said Crowley, hurriedly. “I can’t stop thinking about the fire. That’s even sillier.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, his gaze turning soft. “It most certainly is not, dear boy.”

Crowley shrugged and drank some more wine. Though this was what he wanted -- for Aziraphale to look at him like that and assure him that his worries were valid -- actually receiving it felt like dragging sandpaper across his own fingertips. Perhaps it would be different if they’d actually talked about where they stood now that they were free agents. But Aziraphale showed no signs of wanting to discuss the matter, and Crowley wasn’t about to push the conversation and be accused of going too fast again. 

“Well, where else is there?” said Aziraphale, tipping back his glass. As soon as he’d drained its contents, the glass refilled itself. 

“Loads of places,” said Crowley, who hadn’t thought that far ahead. “It’s a big old world out there, and it wasn’t destroyed. South Africa?"

Aziraphale frowned. “Quite hot."

"True. Yeah. Norway?"

"What's in Norway?"

"Something must be. I was going for the opposite of South Africa.” 

“Mm,” said Aziraphale, sinking down in his chair again. “Japan? Sushi.”

Crowley smiled to himself. Of course the angel would make travel plans with his stomach in mind. “True, true. Somewhere with a beach? S’been a long time since I felt the sand between my toes.”

Aziraphale nodded lazily, his neck so loose that it seemed his head could roll off his shoulders at any moment. “Could be nice. I would like to...to be beside the sea.” 

Crowley’s smile grew into a grin. “Beside the seaside? By the beautiful sea?”

“That’s the one,” said Aziraphale. “Have you ever been to Brighton?”

“Can’t say that I have,” said Crowley, shaking his head. He drained and refilled his own glass, more than happy to have another while Aziraphale prattled on. 

“Lovely place,” said the angel. “I was there once in the eighteenth century, back when everyone was taking sea air as a curative. Someone upstairs got the bright idea to dole out some blessings and try to encourage a spiritual awakening. Complete nonsense, didn’t work at all. But it was a lovely weekend.”

“Well, I think that settles it,” said Crowley, with a snort. “Nothing like the site of a failed heavenly mission for the beginning of a new life.” 

Aziraphale stared at him, momentarily dazed. “It is, isn’t it? A new life...I suppose it’s a new world, so it’s only logical for us to make a new start.” 

Crowley’s heart stuttered at the word “us.” He took another sip of wine and let the alcohol seep into his brain so he could summon up just the right amount of nonchalance. “Oh, shall we go together, then?”

Aziraphale squirmed in his chair and peered at him. “Well, yes. Of course, if you’d rather not…”

“No, no,” said Crowley, abruptly tossing his nonchalance out the window. “I’d like to. Just didn’t know if you’d want me.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes went all soft again, and Crowley had to look away. “I wouldn’t dream of going alone.” 

Crowley opened his mouth to say something, anything that would help them clear the air and ease his mind. But before his brain could conjure up the words, Aziraphale set his glass on the desk and leaned forward in his chair. “What would you say to sobering up and doing a bit of internet searching on that telephone of yours?”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “Right, sure.”

********

Aziraphale’s only knowledge of real estate stemmed from his purchase of the bookshop in the late eighteenth century. He had no doubt that the process of hunting for property had changed a great deal since then. Nevermind the fact that he’d used several small and certainly frivolous miracles to ensure ownership of the desirable corner building. Luckily, Crowley seemed to have spent a lot of time watching television programs about wealthy people buying houses in the country.

“All you’ve got to do is look at these listings,” said Crowley, handing Aziraphale his phone. “Just scroll through and let me know which ones you like.” 

Aziraphale didn’t like the sleek, thin electronic device, mainly because he was very bad at using it. There was something fumbling about his fingers that made the touch screen misbehave. He would much rather have sat down at his ancient desktop computer to search for houses where he normally searched for antiquarian books. But he knew that Crowley would complain the entire time if he made him go anywhere near the old PC. So he took the phone from Crowley and carefully slid his thumb across the screen, peering carefully at each house pictured there.

“This is impossible,” he declared, after fifteen minutes of fruitless searching. “How am I supposed to choose a new home without seeing it in person?”

“You’re not choosing just yet,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale could tell he was trying to be patient with him. “This is just a preliminary search. Get the lay of the land, see what sorts of things you’d like.”

Aziraphale grumbled to himself and swiped his thumb upward, the tiny pictures blurring as they zoomed past. “When I bought this shop, I was simply walking past and it caught my eye.”

“Huh,” said Crowley. “I suppose we could try that.”

“Oh, be serious.”

“I am, honest. Tomorrow -- let’s take a drive in the Bentley and see what catches our fancy.” 

Aziraphale glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “You’ll have to slow down long enough to actually see the houses, you know.” 

Crowley smirked at him. “Well, obviously.” 

The sofa suddenly felt too small for them both to be sitting there, so Aziraphale handed Crowley’s phone back to him and got up to clear away their wine glasses. He could have miracled them clean, but sometimes he liked getting up and doing something. Besides, he and Crowley had mutually agreed to avoid using miracles as much as possible. Though they’d had several weeks with no sign of either Heaven or Hell, they weren’t keen to remind their head offices of their presence or transgressions. Better, they thought, to lie low for now. 

In the back room, Aziraphale stood at his tiny sink and rinsed the wine glasses, trying not to think about how close one of them had been to Crowley’s lips. Just now, on the sofa, he’d felt the heat radiating from Crowley’s body. He’d wanted to edge closer, to touch Crowley -- anywhere would do. These thoughts had always been present as background noise, but they’d been incredibly loud since the failed Armageddon. There was a tremor in his hands, and he gripped the edge of the sink until it dissipated. His heart and mind had been at war for too long, and they were begging him to declare a winner. 

When Aziraphale was with Crowley, his heart ached and longed to reach out to him. But his mind succeeded in reining in that foolish desire, as it always had. The old patterns were comfortable and safe, and Aziraphale had had his fill of danger in the preceding eleven years. It was enough, he told himself, for them both to have survived and to be here together. At least now he could admit to being Crowley’s friend, and let Crowley name him as such.

“Hey, angel,” said Crowley, from directly behind him, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin. 

“Oh! _Sugar_ ,” said Aziraphale, his heart racing as he swallowed down an expletive or two.

Crowley smirked at him. “Y’know, you could probably swear all you like now.”

Aziraphale tugged at his waistcoat. “Perhaps. But I’d rather not.”

“Mmm,” said Crowley, clearly doubtful. “Anyway, sorry to startle you. Look at this place.”

Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath and then took Crowley’s phone in hand. The screen displayed a picture of a quaint stone cottage with ivy growing on the exterior.

“Swipe right,” said Crowley, gesturing with his finger. 

When he swiped at the screen, Aziraphale saw a photo of the cottage’s back garden. Not only was it full to the brim with all manner of flora, the view beyond the gate was exquisite. He brought the phone closer to his face, wishing he had his spectacles nearby. 

“Swipe again,” said Crowley. “The next one shows the view more clearly.”

Indeed, the next photo showed a clear view to the sea. It was far in the distance, but it was visible from the back garden. Aziraphale studied the image, surprised to find that he was tearing up slightly. He could imagine two outdoor lounge chairs at the edge of the garden, pointed toward the sea, so they could watch as the sun came down in the evening. He could imagine wandering outside in the early morning hours, a mug of tea in hand, to stare out at the sea. By the time the screen on Crowley’s phone went dark, he’d constructed an entire life that might take place in that stone cottage. 

“Seems like you like it,” said Crowley, from somewhere near his shoulder. “Want me to wake up the screen? You can look at it some more if you want.” 

Aziraphale spun around to face Crowley, hoping that his eyes appeared dry. “Let’s see it in person, tomorrow.” 

“All right,” said Crowley, barely hiding a satisfied smirk. “If you insist.” 

That night, as Crowley slept, Aziraphale crept into the back room to make a new mug of cocoa. He’d become accustomed to the sight of the demon sprawled on his sofa, one leg bent at the knee and the other spilling past the arm rest. One thin hand, with its graceful fingers, scraped the dusty floor. He stopped to study him for a moment, to take in the peaceful repose of his face. In the dark, when the rest of the world slept on, Aziraphale felt allowed to indulge his heart. He considered what it might feel like to curl his body beside Crowley’s, for them to touch and share warmth. He held the thought close to his chest, somewhere between his mug of cocoa and his waistcoat. 

The next morning, with all his dangerous desires packed away, Aziraphale climbed into the passenger seat of the Bentley. Crowley stared down at his mobile for a few minutes, scrolling through directions, then grasped the steering wheel. Without so much as a nod to the way cars usually operated, the Bentley roared to life and carried them away from the bookshop. Aziraphale clung to the door handle as Crowley weaved his way through traffic and out of London. 

“You’d think you’d have gotten used to it by now,” said Crowley, turning to grin at him. 

“Please watch the road,” Aziraphale pleaded, screwing his eyes shut. 

Once they were out of the city, the danger of crashing into someone or something lessened significantly. But careening down narrow country lanes wasn’t exactly relaxing either. Crowley mercifully slowed to a fraction of his normal speed as they neared the cottage. But then he spotted an enormous puddle that spanned the width of the road. Before Aziraphale could say anything, Crowley put his foot down and sped through the muck, cackling as he did so. 

“Oh, yes, very mature,” said Aziraphale. 

“What?” said Crowley. “That was a bloody invitation. How was I supposed to ignore that?” 

Aziraphale simply shook his head and watched as the droplets of mud and water evaporated away from the Bentley’s windscreen. The car was once again gleaming by the time they rolled up in front of the cottage. It looked just as it had in the pictures online, and Aziraphale felt his heart swell at the sight. Then he noticed someone standing by the door, someone with a dark blonde bob and a dove gray skirt suit. 

“Who’s that woman?” said Aziraphale, panic tugging at his navel. She didn’t look like any angel he’d met, but he hadn’t met every angel. 

“She’s the estate agent,” said Crowley. “I called her up this morning. She’s going to show us the house. Are you all right?”

“What? Perfectly fine, dear,” said Aziraphale, hurriedly, though he could feel his heart hammering in his chest. He opened the car door and heaved himself out into the damp morning to cover up his heavy breathing. As he came around the car, Crowley studied him doubtfully, but Aziraphale simply smiled at him. 

“Hello! Mr. Crowley?” 

Reluctantly, Crowley turned away from Aziraphale to flash a smile at the estate agent. “Right, that’s me. And you’re Ms. Brewster?” 

“Carol, please,” said the woman, extending her hand. “Is this your husband?” 

In response to this fairly simple question, Crowley proceeded to choke on his own words for what felt like fifteen minutes. Aziraphale, trying not to take too much offense at this response, stepped in to shake Carol’s hand. 

“Please excuse him,” he said. “We prefer the term _partner._ ”

“Oh!” said Carol, shaking his hand and looking embarrassed. “Yes, of course. So sorry. Please come through and we’ll have a look.”

Aziraphale tugged at his waistcoat and managed one step forward before Crowley pulled him back, a firm hand at his elbow.

“Partner, eh?” said Crowley, smirking at him. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” said Aziraphale, hoping his cheeks weren’t too red. “It’s easier this way. Or would you prefer to explain our six-thousand-year acquaintance?”

“No, no, ‘course not,” said Crowley. He stepped to one side and extended an arm out in front of him. “After you, _life partner._ ”

It was very clear to Aziraphale that he’d made a dreadful mistake. This was exactly the sort of thing that Crowley would latch onto and mine for jokes and jabs for months to come. Normally he didn’t mind a bit of ribbing, especially not from Crowley, who imbued his teasing with a hefty dose of fondness (though he most certainly denied it). But he’d prefer not to have the prospect of them sharing a life together, of being together in that way, laughed at. That would seem too much like an answer to his unasked question, and he wasn’t sure he could stomach it. 

Putting on his best impression of someone without internal conflicts, Aziraphale strode after Carol. There was a narrow staircase just inside the front door, and a hallway that led back to the kitchen. To their right was a sizeable sitting room with low ceilings and a window that looked out onto greenery. Carol was saying something about the master bedroom and en suite, but Aziraphale could think only of the back garden.

Crowley, it appeared, was on the same wavelength. “I’m sure that’s all fine. Is the garden through here?”

“Yes, the kitchen leads into a sun room, and the garden is just beyond that,” said Carol. “Would you like to see?”

Aziraphale had to restrain himself and let Carol lead them down the hall. The kitchen was nice enough, with exposed beams across the ceiling and shiny, modern appliances. Aziraphale caught Crowley eyeing it all appreciatively, and he tried not to entertain thoughts of making cocoa to share on a wintry evening. Instead he stepped into the sun room, which contained an array of rattan furniture softened up with cushions. When he pushed open the door and stepped into the garden, he found that the flowers were still in bloom.

The garden was much larger than the photos online had shown. There was a neglected vegetable patch, a small shed, and tall hedges along the sides for privacy. Aziraphale walked through the flowers, not daring to look back for Crowley’s reaction to the garden. He simply made a beeline for the back of the garden, eager to take in the view. 

“Oh, dear,” he said, hands coming to rest gently on the wooden fence posts. There was no view to the sea. Perhaps there had been, at some point, whenever those lovely photos had been taken. But now the garden looked out onto a vast field of brush and tangled hedges. 

“Fuck,” said Crowley, very softly, standing just beside him. Aziraphale thought he saw the demon’s hand move infinitesimally closer to his own, but then Crowley curled his fingers into his own palm and whirled around. 

“Leave it,” said Aziraphale. Or, at least, that’s what he tried to say. The words croaked from his throat, barely audible as he held back tears.

“Erm, what’s all this?” said Crowley, his tone far more tetchy now than friendly.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit overgrown,” said Carol. 

“A bit?” said Crowley. “This wasn’t in the photos online.” 

“I’m so sorry, those photos must’ve been out of date,” said Carol. “Is the view very important to you?”

“Yeah, it’s actually why we made the drive down,” said Crowley. 

“Ah, I see,” said Carol. Aziraphale could hear her rifling through her binder, no doubt looking for something that might keep them interested in the property. “Well, I’m not sure who owns that field, but I can certainly find out.”

“It’s quite all right,” said Aziraphale, turning from the fence to face them. “I’m certain this is not the only cottage with a view.” 

Carol smiled sympathetically. “I really am very sorry. I can do some research and find you some other options in the area. How does that sound?”

“Certainly,” said Aziraphale, returning her smile. “That sounds splendid. Come along, Crowley.”

As they walked back through the house, Aziraphale took care not to notice any more charming details. He kept his head down and his hands clasped behind his back, and he pushed away the gnawing sensation of disappointment in his chest. He didn’t look at Crowley until they were both back in the Bentley, and only then because he could feel Crowley staring at him. 

“I suppose it wasn’t meant to be,” he said, managing a slight shrug of his shoulders. 

Crowley frowned. “The view means that much to you?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Aziraphale, waving his hand dismissively. “As I said, there are surely other cottages.”

“But you liked this one best.”

“A cottage is a cottage. The next one we find might be even lovelier.”

“But this is your first choice, you should have your first choice.”

“I don’t see how that enters into it.”

“Look, the whole bloody reason we’re out here is because you wanted to be by the sea. And we found a nice place with a view of the sea. Now you just want to walk away?”

Aziraphale had to look away from the earnest expression on Crowley’s face. “One can’t always get what one wants.” 

Crowley mumbled something under his breath, something that sounded suspiciously like _we’ll see about that,_ and then he gripped the steering wheel and they were off. Aziraphale waited to respond until they were back on the motorway, rocketing toward London and weaving in between drivers Crowley clearly deemed too slow.

“Don’t go doing anything on my account, all right?” he said. “It’s just one cottage out of many, we can keep looking. It’s not as though you can clear that field on your own, certainly not without a number of demonic miracles. Something that large would surely make Hell sit up and take notice.”

“Relax, angel,” said Crowley. “I’m not going to do anything foolish, and I won’t use any miracles.”

“Yes, but whose standards of ‘foolish’ are you using?” said Aziraphale, worrying at the skin around his left thumbnail. 

In lieu of a response, Crowley made a series of moves through traffic that no ordinary vehicle could possibly have managed, thus displaying his skewed standards of what was foolish.

When they arrived back at the bookshop, Aziraphale bustled inside and exchanged his coat for a cardigan. He could feel his disappointment over the cottage rising, and he thought that a bit of inventory might distract him. Yes, perhaps an hour or two of inventory followed by a long night of drinking with Crowley. It was only when he went to his desk to find his ledger that Aziraphale realized Crowley was still loitering near the front door.

“Is something wrong?” he said

“Nah, I’m fine,” said Crowley, hands stuffed into his back pockets. “But listen, I think maybe I should get back to my flat. I’m sure the plants have been slacking off.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. Now the gnawing disappointment was returning with a vengeance. He’d need to spend all night on inventory to scatter his thoughts. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“I’ll be back,” Crowley assured him. “If you feel like it, do a bit of house hunting on your own.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I might just do that.”

“See you soon, angel.”

Just like that, Crowley was gone, and the bookshop suddenly felt like a cavernous space. For a moment or two, Aziraphale stood at his desk and watched people pass by on the street. None of them knew how close they’d come to destruction. They were all continuing on with their lives and their normal human struggles. Aziraphale wished, and not for the first time, that his life could be as simply complicated as theirs. Things being what they were, he slid his ledger out of a cubby in his desk and settled in to inventory his poetry collection. 

He got as far as T.S. Eliot, which reminded him of the dreadful new adaptation of “Cats” that was apparently due for release soon. Crowley had mentioned it to him and insisted that it was nothing to do with him. Of course, Crowley had been instrumental in the development of the stage production, and he was quite proud of that fact. In any case, as soon as Aziraphale was set down the road of thinking about Crowley, he only wished the demon were there with him, and then he couldn’t get anything done. 

Giving up on his inventory, Aziraphale sat down at his desk with _Wuthering Heights._ He was not overly fond of this particular Bronte tome, but it gave him something to concentrate on. Soon the bookshop grew dark and Aziraphale made the rounds to draw down all his shades. When he sat back at his desk, he manifested his halo to act as a reading light. It was something he’d done so often that he didn’t even think about it anymore. But he’d read scarcely a paragraph before he gasped and switched it off. His halo required miraculous energy, and he wasn’t supposed to be using miracles. 

Aziraphale sat frozen in his chair, eyes roving around in the dark, straining to see any suspicious figures that might have appeared. He didn’t see anyone, but he couldn’t be sure. Crowley could see in the dark, but it would not have been wise to have Crowley in the shop just then. Very slowly, Aziraphale shut his book, folded his hands in his lap, and waited. If someone was coming, if Gabriel was going to pop in and admonish him for using his halo, Aziraphale wanted to be ready. He tried his best to breathe slowly; though he didn’t _need_ to breathe, it helped to calm his corporeal form. 

No one came, and eventually the sun rose again to illuminate the bookshop.

********

Two days passed before Crowley returned. While those two days were small ripples in the pond of Aziraphale’s long existence on earth, they felt like an eternity to him. He kept the shop closed, as he still felt rattled after his first night alone. When he heard a sharp rap on the front door of the shop, he felt a momentary frisson of worry. Then he remembered that Gabriel would not have knocked.

“Angel, I’ve got exciting news,” said Crowley, hurrying into the shop as soon as Aziraphale opened the door. 

“Oh? What have you been up to, then?” said Aziraphale. He felt a weight lifting from his shoulders as he followed Crowley into the back room and watched him flop down on the sofa. 

Crowley smiled, clearly pleased with himself about something. “I made some calls. The estate agent managed to find the person who owns that land behind the cottage. She put me in touch with him and, well, I persuaded him to do some landscaping.”

It took a moment for Crowley’s words to fully register in Aziraphale’s brain. When he realized what the demon was saying, Aziraphale gave him a hesitant smile. “You’re not serious.”

Still looking incredibly smug, Crowley slid his phone from his pocket, touched the screen, and handed it to Aziraphale. “Have a look for yourself.”

There were several photos that showed the clearing of the field behind the cottage. As Aziraphale swiped through them, the field opened up, and soon the sea was visible again from where the photographer was standing. In the final photo, the camera turned to reveal Carol giving a thumbs-up. Aziraphale swiped back to see the view again and felt his heart swell with terrifying hope. 

“How on earth did you manage this?” he asked, unable to keep his voice from shaking. 

“Like I said, a bit of persuasion.” Crowley sounded so casual about it all, but when Aziraphale stole a glance at him, he saw the demon fidgeting with the slinky scarf around his neck. 

“No miracles?” said Aziraphale, remembering his halo incident with a jolt. 

“None, I swear,” said Crowley, holding up his hands. “May have laid on the sentimentality a bit thick, but I didn’t use anything truly demonic.” 

“Sentimentality?” 

“I may have mentioned that you were ill,” said Crowley, a bit bashful. “And I may have said something about this being your dying wish.”

“Crowley!” said Aziraphale, swatting at his arm. “That’s not persuasion, those are outright lies.”

Crowley shrugged his shoulders and smirked. “I mean, I am still a demon.”

Aziraphale’s natural instinct to scold him reared up in his chest, but he fought it down. Instead he simply pursed his lips and looked down at the photos again. “I can’t believe...I told you not to go to any trouble.”

“It wasn’t any trouble,” said Crowley. “I just...I knew you liked the house.” 

Aziraphale looked up from the phone to find Crowley staring at him. In the weeks since Armageddon, the demon had kept his sunglasses on, even in the bookshop. Several times, Aziraphale had wanted to ask him to remove them but felt that would be crossing a line. Now he desperately wanted to see that lovely golden hue, to see what Crowley might actually be thinking as he stared across the sofa. 

“Well,” he said. “Should we...put in an offer?”

Crowley winced. “I already have. I hope that’s all right. Just tell me if it’s too much, and I can tell Carol we’re rethinking the whole thing.”

“No,” said Aziraphale, decisively. “No, it’s fine. We agreed, it’s time to move away from London. We’ve found a place, so there’s no reason not to move forward.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Excellent. Glad we’re on the same page.” 

Of course, it didn’t feel at all like they were on the same page. Crowley had just done something that most people would consider a “grand gesture,” and Aziraphale wasn’t sure why he’d done it. Perhaps he’d just wanted to stretch his demonic muscles in persuading the landowner to clear the field. Perhaps he, too, felt strongly about the house and was simply doing all he could to secure it. Or perhaps, said a traitorous voice in his head, Crowley was being kind because he knew Aziraphale loved the house. Perhaps he wanted to do something special for him.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and stood up quickly from the sofa. “I, erm, I need a bit of fresh air. Back in a jiffy.” 

Smoking was a rather nasty human habit that Aziraphale had picked up in the 60s, put down in the 90s, and then picked up again when Armageddon had begun barrelling toward them. For the past eleven years he’d kept a pack of cigarettes in an inner pocket of his coat. Angels shouldn’t be able to get addicted to earthly vices, he supposed, but he’d never been a typical angel. In the alleyway behind the shop, Aziraphale coaxed one slim cylinder from his pack and fumbled with his antique lighter. He took a long drag once the cigarette was lit and leaned back against the brick wall. 

It seemed that he could feel the weight of his years in London seeping from the wall into his back, straight through the thick fabric of his coat. He’d fallen in love with the bookshop just as he’d now fallen for the cottage. This had been his first real home on earth, and it was where he’d spent so much time with Crowley. Of course, the shop also reminded him of the half-century in which he and Crowley hadn’t spoken one word to each other. There was the dark, damp evening when he’d met Crowley with a thermos of holy water, and the afternoon when they’d realized Armageddon was on. 

Setting aside those memories, the bookshop was also where Gabriel and the other archangels had always found him. Though it was awfully comforting to have a single place where one could settle in on a cold and rainy evening, it also made one very easy to find. He believed what Crowley had said, that Heaven and Hell would leave them alone for now. At least, he believed it in theory. He could say the words aloud, he could tell himself that they were safe now, but that didn’t change the bundle of fear hiding at the core of his being. Perhaps leaving would help to banish that fear, even just a little bit. 

Aziraphale had smoked half the cigarette when he realized that he couldn’t miracle the smell from his clothes. He tossed the butt to the ground and stepped on it with his shoe, shaking his head at himself. He stepped gingerly through the back door, sniffing at his coat to see if the smoke was very obvious. When he returned to his office, he found Crowley staring down at his phone with a strange expression on his face.

“Is something the matter?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Carol accepted our offer.”

“What, already?” said Aziraphale, brushing absently at his waistcoat. “That seems rather quick.”

Crowley made a sound at the back of his throat and cocked his head to one side. “Well, it was a pretty large offer, angel.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I did tell you not to make a fuss.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and glanced down at his phone again, then back up at Aziraphale. His eyebrows went up, and a grin stretched slowly across his face. “Guess this means we’re home owners.” 

“Well, indeed,” said Aziraphale. The thought made his stomach feel a bit odd, but in a nice way. As an excuse to avoid pondering this feeling, he glanced around the office and was suddenly struck by how many possessions he’d acquired over the years. “Oh, dear. I do love the cottage, but I don’t think I’m going to enjoy moving very much.”

“Ah, it’ll be nothing,” said Crowley. He was halfway to waving his hand dismissively when he seemed to realize they were not, at present, using miracles. Then his face fell as he, too, felt the weight of Aziraphale’s possessions around him. “ _Fuck._ ”

********

Moving would have been far simpler if they’d been using miracles as they always had before. But needs must, and so it was that Crowley discovered the world of rental moving vans. He knew enough not to pay extra for the insurance, as that was one of his ideas. He also asked after the moving van man’s boss, as casual as you please. Upon learning that the man hated his boss, Crowley convinced him that providing a discount would mean less money in the boss’ pocket. Thus, Crowley received a thirty percent discount off the original fee.

When it came to his own flat, he only needed to move four things -- his Mona Lisa, a box of records he’d bought over the years, the lectern from a certain bombed-out church, and a small box that sat on his desk. The lectern was something of a big, neon sign that said “I’ve been batty for you for centuries,” but he couldn’t leave it behind. The small box contained all the evidence Heaven or Hell would need to convict him on the charge of being friends with Aziraphale -- tokens of their time together, trinkets chock full of hope.

As for his plants, Crowley decided to make a fresh start in the new cottage. The back garden had been fairly impressive, but he was sure he could do more with it. There were far too many hedges and not enough ferns, and he was excited to get more creative with flowers. So he misted his plants one last time and gave them a good talking to about hanging on until the new owner moved into the flat. They wouldn’t be anywhere near as attentive as Crowley, but hopefully they could keep the plants alive. 

That was the flat in Mayfair sorted. The bookshop was another matter entirely. 

“Angel,” he said, staring at the stacks that Aziraphale had made near the entrance of the shop. “You know we can’t miraculously enlarge the van, right?”

“Yes, I know,” said Aziraphale. He was wringing his hands, pacing back and forth by the books. “But I’ve culled as much as I possibly can. It’s a difficult thing, you know, to winnow down two centuries worth of collected books. I’d like to see you try it, certainly. I can imagine you didn’t have many hard choices to make, what with your minimalism. Well, you know I like my clutter, and it’s very difficult to squeeze everything into one small van. I mean, how do humans handle this? They move entire households, and I simply don’t understand it.” 

As Aziraphale passed him on his way across the rug, Crowley grabbed his elbow and forced him to stop. Then he held him by the shoulders, looked him in the eye, and spoke firmly. “Angel. What’s going on?”

“I’m worried about leaving,” said Aziraphale, wincing as though he expected Crowley to be cross with him. “I thought it was the right thing to do, but now I’m not so sure.” 

Crowley took a deep breath. Yes, he had gone to great lengths to have a man tend to his messy fields. And yes, he had offered a rather large chunk of the money he’d saved up over centuries to purchase the cottage. But Crowley understood Aziraphale’s hesitancy, and he didn’t want to force him into anything he didn’t want. The bookshop was a refuge, and it was difficult at the best of times to shove off from a dock of safety. Doubly so if that dock had recently been reduced to cinders, destroying any sense of normalcy you'd ever had.

That being said, he had a feeling this was just a bit of panicking, and he wasn’t about to let Aziraphale stay somewhere that was making him miserable because of cold feet at the last minute.

“Think about what made you want to leave in the first place,” he said. 

Aziraphale nodded, his chest heaving and his eyebrows bunched together. “Yes, I know. I know. Gabriel and the others -- they know this place.” 

“Right,” said Crowley. He was worried about how quickly Aziraphale was breathing, but he didn’t want to say anything to panic the angel further. “This’ll be a whole new place, a fresh start. Once we’re there, you really won’t have to think about them again.”

“I hope so,” said Aziraphale, quietly.

“What are you going to do with the shop?” Crowley asked. “I mean, I don’t expect you to sell it or anything, not like my flat.” 

“Yes, well, about that,” said Aziraphale. “I do have something in mind, but it will require a very small, hardly detectable miracle.” 

“Angel…”

“I know,” said Aziraphale, wincing again. “I know, we agreed. But I can’t see any other way to ensure the shop is left undisturbed. As you say, I simply can’t bear to part with it -- not right now, at any rate. I just need to seal up the building to keep people out.” 

Crowley stayed quiet for a moment because rude words were all he could think to say just then, and he didn’t want Aziraphale to think he was upset. Of course, he was upset. If he’d known the angel was going to sneak a miracle, he’d have said that he was owed one as well. Then he could have moved the bloody lectern on his own. But he’d already made an appointment with some strong men who would get it into the van for him. Eventually he let out a long breath and shook his head. 

“I can’t argue with that,” he said. “You should do it tonight.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, clearly surprised that Crowley had given in so quickly. “But we aren’t leaving town just yet. I thought I’d wait until we were about to drive off.” 

“Yeah, I see your thinking,” said Crowley. “But if they’re going to come after us -- and I’m not saying they will -- I’d rather they didn’t follow us to our new idyllic getaway.”

“Fair point, I suppose,” said Aziraphale. “Right, I’ll do it tonight.”

 _Yes,_ thought Crowley. _And then we’ll stay awake all night in case angels come riding down from the sky on lightning bolts. Whoopee._

“That will set my mind at ease,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll know the shop is safe, and it will be here if I want to come back for more books. In that case, I suppose I can remove a few from the pile coming to the cottage.” 

Feeling that the crisis had been averted, Crowley settled into the comfortable, old sofa (which was coming with them, of course) and listened to Aziraphale puttering around. 

By the time the streets of Soho grew dark, Aziraphale had moved a surprising amount of books back to his shelves. After stepping back to admire the far more manageable pile of books by the door, Aziraphale came into the back room, tugging at his waistcoat and looking rather nervous. 

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ll be getting on with the wards, then. I shouldn’t need too much power to secure the building. It’s really just the doors and windows, you know. I’m sure it’ll be a small blip on Heaven’s radar, as it were.” 

“Come on,” said Crowley, swinging his legs off the sofa. “I’ll help you.”

“Oh, would you? Oh, thank you.” 

Aziraphale took the front door, and Crowley took the front windows. He could see Aziraphale watching him out of the corner of his eye, hands poised over the door handles. Crowley moved first, gesturing as though he were pulling a shade up over the windows. They both paused for a beat, and nothing happened. So Aziraphale held out both hands, one in front of each door, and pulled downward. Again, no one seemed to be striking them down, so they both exchanged a look and moved quickly about the shop, securing the other windows and the side entrance. 

“I think that’s everything,” said Crowley, striding back into the center of the shop. “Angel?”

Fear yanked Crowley’s heart from his chest as he realized that he didn’t see Aziraphale anywhere. In an instant, he was back inside the burning bookshop, frantically searching. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, turning in a circle to survey all corners of the shop. When he spotted the sliver of tan coat near the hatstand, he nearly collapsed with relief. 

“Fuck’s sake, you nearly gave me a coronary,” he said, swaggering over on unsteady legs. 

When he noticed that Crowley had found him, Aziraphale tried to smile, but it came across as more of a grimace. The angel was leaning against one of his shelves, clutching at his chest, his eyes darting wildly around the shop. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, breathlessly.

“‘S’alright,” said Crowley. “Just -- for a second there, I…”

“No, I’m sorry for hiding,” said Aziraphale. “I thought I heard something. They know, they must know I’ve used my powers. That was dreadfully foolish, why did we do that?”

As he babbled, Aziraphale slid down the shelf until he was sitting on the floor. Without even thinking about it, Crowley followed, kneeling beside him. 

“It’s all right,” he said. “No one’s coming.” 

“I let my halo out by accident the other night,” said Aziraphale, nearly in tears. “I shouldn’t have done that, but it was second nature. I’m sure they’re just waiting for me to misstep, to give them a reason to return.”

At this, Aziraphale leaned forward to drop his head into his hands, but Crowley stopped him. He cupped the angel’s face gently in his hands, and Aziraphale looked up at him in surprise. Panic jumped up Crowley’s spine, and he nearly pulled away, but he forced himself to be brave.

“It’s okay,” he said, letting his thumb brush gently over Aziraphale’s cheek. They’d never touched like this, they’d never been this close. “We’re all right, we’re safe.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe here again,” said Aziraphale, voice wavering. 

Crowley sighed. “I know the feeling. But for now, I don’t think anyone’s coming. Just take a deep breath, all right?”

Aziraphale drew air in through his nose, and then let it out through his mouth. Crowley shivered at the feel of the angel’s breath on his skin. They were so close, and Aziraphale’s pale blue eyes put Crowley in mind of the sea, and of their new cottage. Soon they would be living there together, he thought, and perhaps they could be close like this again. Aziraphale was gazing up at him -- _gazing_ was the only word for it -- and Crowley considered how easy it would be to lean in and close the space between them. He was halfway to seizing the moment when Aziraphale pulled back gently, and Crowley hurriedly moved his hands away. 

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale, brushing at the front of his waistcoat. “I’m sorry for losing my head.”

“No need for that,” said Crowley, shaking his head to cover how dazed he felt from that brief moment of contact. “Just trying to help.” 

“Yes, well, I appreciate it,” said Aziraphale. “What would you say to a cup of cocoa?”

“Er, yeah,” said Crowley. “I’ll take tea, if you have it?” 

“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale shifted onto his knees, and then heaved himself up off the floor. “I’ll just be a moment.”

Crowley stood up and watched him bustle off into the back room. He had to resist the urge to follow, just to keep an eye on him. Two panicked moments in the space of one evening was enough to make Crowley worry. It seemed that he should have reached his capacity for worries long ago. But at this point, heaping one more atop the mountain in his mind felt normal. He’d never stopped to consider whether the mountain might topple over one day. Perhaps Aziraphale’s mountain was slightly more rickety than his own. 

Once he had his cup of cocoa, Aziraphale appeared calm enough. But Crowley remained alert all night, trying not to react too visibly at the sound of car horns or laughing groups of people walking past the shop. When Aziraphale suggested he get some rest, Crowley shrugged and said he wasn’t tired. There was no way that he was going to let something happen on his watch, not again. Not ever again. 

The night passed without incident, and Crowley came to the conclusion that no one was watching them after all. If they wanted, they could probably miracle up their belongings into one tiny box that took up barely any space in the Bentley. But the image of Aziraphale, slumped against his shelf and hyperventilating, was burned into his brain. He knew that if he mentioned using their powers again, Aziraphale would likely react the same way. Crowley didn’t want to see him like that again, he just wanted to get him safely to the cottage. 

On moving day, two large men arrived at the flat in Mayfair and moved the lectern down to the rented van. Crowley went downstairs with them, carrying his records, his Leonardo sketch, and the box from his desk. The men seemed confused about everything Crowley left behind, but he tipped them both generously, and they said nothing. 

Crowley drove the Bentley to the bookshop, following the moving van and driving more slowly than he ever had, teeth clenched the whole way. It would be best, he thought, to give them the address of the cottage and leave the bookshop first so he could go at his own pace. Aziraphale could shake his head and ‘tut’ all he liked; doing the speed limit gave Crowley too much room to think. 

“Do mind those, won’t you?” said Aziraphale, hovering as the men carried box after box of his books and scrolls to the van. “Some of them are very old, and they need to be treated with care.” 

As he walked back to the shop from the van, one of the movers shot Crowley a look. He was clearly seeking company in his belief that Aziraphale was a doddering old fool. Crowley fixed him with a fearsome glare, and if the angel hadn’t been around he would have flashed his demonic face at the asshole. 

“Right, so, this is it,” said Crowley, slipping a piece of paper to the non-asshole mover. “We’ll head out first and meet you there, if that’s all right.”

“Sure thing,” said the mover. Then he smiled kindly and nodded to Crowley. “My uncle and his partner moved out near Brighton a few years back. I hope you two love it as much as they do.”

“Just looking for some peace and quiet,” said Crowley, nodding back to him.

********

[ ](https://ibb.co/CtRGqGr)

Aziraphale was a bit disappointed to find that new surroundings did not automatically equal a calmer brain. There was a brief respite when they first arrived and he’d been able to hide in the snug to shelve all his books. It was satisfying to put things in order -- well, his version of order -- and not think about anything else. But as soon as he’d finished, his mind wandered back to London and the wards they’d placed earlier that week. Did miracles leave residual energy? Could they use it to trace him here, like a bunch of angelic bloodhounds?

When his persistent thoughts became too much, Aziraphale poked his head in to see what Crowley was up to in the sitting room. The demon was dozing peacefully on a sofa that had come with the cottage. Not wanting to bother him, Aziraphale ducked back into the snug and sat in the cozy window seat. He hadn’t had a new home for roughly two hundred years, and he didn’t know what to expect in the way of an adjustment period. For now, the cottage was lovely, but it was not home. 

In their first week, Crowley paid some local workmen to put up a greenhouse in the back garden. He must have paid rather a large amount, because the greenhouse was finished in record time. Aziraphale trusted that Crowley hadn’t used any miracles to put it up, but a voice at the back of his mind kept repeating that he should ask, just to be sure. He did his best to ignore it, again shutting himself in the snug while Crowley took a trip into town for supplies.

When Crowley returned, Aziraphale saw him unloading the Bentley from the front window. After wondering if he should interfere, Aziraphale bustled out the door, waving to him. "Let me help with those!"

"Oh," said Crowley. "Er, yeah. Thanks, angel."

The heavy bags of soil were no trouble for Aziraphale to lift and carry through the side gate, to where the greenhouse stood. When he returned from his first trip, Crowley was still standing by the car, fiddling with his sunglasses.

“All right?” said Aziraphale, lifting three more bags of soil. 

“Er, yep,” said Crowley. “I’ll just get some of the potted plants…”

He trailed off, and Aziraphale had the distinct impression that Crowley was staring as he walked away. He wasn’t sure what was so interesting about him carrying bags of soil, but it seemed to have put Crowley rather out of joint.

"Anything I can do?" said Aziraphale, wringing his hands together and glancing around at the array of supplies once they’d finished.

"Nah,” said Crowley, shaking his head. “It’s a big job, but I think starting from scratch will actually be...fun. Anyway, have to start whipping these guys into shape. They were being coddled in that garden centre.” 

Aziraphale chuckled nervously. “Ha, yes, of course. Well, I suppose I’ll just go and get some reading done, shall I?”

“Just relax, angel,” said Crowley. “After all, that’s why we came out here.” 

He tried, he truly did, but as the week wore on Aziraphale grew restless. He couldn't seem to concentrate on reading, and the days felt so long in the countryside. He toyed with the idea of sleep, just for something to do at night, but decided against it. Not only was it not in his nature to rest in that way, there was only one bed in the cottage's master bedroom, and Crowley slept there after each long day of gardening. There was, perhaps, a conversation that could smooth this all over, but Aziraphale didn't know how to begin it. 

Sometimes, in the afternoon, Aziraphale installed himself at the edge of the garden, in one of the lounge chairs that stood there. It was his own personal vigil, watching the sea, taking in the view that Crowley had worked so hard to get for him. He tried to let that thought calm him, but oftentimes it made him feel more restless instead. Though his scenery had changed, Aziraphale did not feel any less fearful, or any more capable of making his feelings known to Crowley. 

One day, after sitting mired in these thoughts and watching the sea, Aziraphale let out a heavy sigh and pushed himself up from the lounge chair. A cigarette would help, certainly, but he was trying to kick the habit again. He stood staring out at the sea for a moment, trying to focus on its wide, blue expanse. But now he needed movement, he needed to do something that would quiet his brain. He turned to leave the garden and nearly ran headlong into Crowley. 

“Oh, my days,” he said, stumbling backward. “Where did you come from?” 

“In there,” said Crowley, jabbing his thumb toward the greenhouse. “What, did you forget I was here?” 

“No, no, of course not,” said Aziraphale. “You only startled me, that’s all. Everything, er...is everything all right in there?”

Crowley shrugged, hands on his hips. There was a smear of dirt on the side of his neck, and Aziraphale wanted to wipe it away for him. “It’s a work in progress.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale. “The snug is all set up. Or, rather, I’ve completed the initial organization. I’m sure that things will need to change if I acquire some new books.” 

Crowley nodded. “And you will, I’m sure. There is a bookshop in town, after all.” 

“Ah, yes, the bookshop!” said Aziraphale, grateful to have been handed a diversion. “Could we go into town today? I’d love to scope out the shop’s selection.” 

“We only just got here,” Crowley grumbled. “Don’t you want to give the shop a few more days of peace, before you come in and berate them for not having enough Wilde first editions?” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I’ll never live that down, will I? It was _once_ , and that shop claimed to have a wide selection of antiquarian books.”

Crowley smirked at him. “Come on, let’s go.”

They took the Bentley, of course, but it was scarcely a ten-minute drive into town. Crowley parked on the high street, and Aziraphale let him lead the way to the bookshop, the location of which he’d looked up on his mobile. As soon as he was walking beside Crowley, Aziraphale felt more relaxed. In London, whenever he’d been especially worried over something, he would take a long, meandering walk, without any thought as to his destination. Next time, he would insist that they walk into town instead of driving. 

“There you are,” said Crowley, gesturing to the small building up ahead. “Their website makes absolutely no claims about the quality of their classics section, so try not to be a menace.” 

“That’s quite rich coming from you,” said Aziraphale. “Hang on, are you not coming with me?” 

“Nah, I thought I’d get a coffee,” said Crowley. “I’ll meet up with you in a bit, I promise.” 

Aziraphale tried to convince himself that this was fine; if Crowley had come into the shop with him, he likely would have grumbled the entire time about how long Aziraphale was taking. This way he could browse at his own pace. Still, he would have liked the company. 

The bookshop was sandwiched between a candle shop and a cheese shop. Aziraphale was not exactly keen on candles after what had happened to his own shop, but he thought the cheese might require later examination. As he stepped into the bookshop, Aziraphale was met by the familiarly musty smell that most of its kind acquired. It was comforting, but it also made him reflexively miss his own shop. 

The aisles were narrow, and every single shelf was filled to bursting. It was the sort of place that encouraged a treasure hunt, that necessitated carefully combing each row of books to potentially find a hidden gem. Aziraphale had just reached the theology section when a young woman appeared at the end of the aisle. She had long brown hair pulled back at the base of her head, and she was wearing a cardigan that Aziraphale would have happily stolen. 

“Can I help you find anything?” she asked, brightly.

“Oh! No, not really,” said Aziraphale. “I’m just browsing, thank you.” 

She nodded to him. “Let me know if you need anything, I’m just up by the till.”

Aziraphale nodded back to her, and then she vanished into the stacks. Just like that, Aziraphale had found a new sanctuary. Nothing ruined the browsing experience more than overbearing staff. There was nothing wrong with being helpful, but Aziraphale never wanted to be followed around. If everyone else who worked at the shop was like this young woman, then it was perfect. Aside from that, there was a pleasant homey quality that stemmed from the shop’s mismatched shelves and haphazard arrangement. It was perfect. 

After a long, leisurely browse, Aziraphale managed to find a few slim volumes of Victorian poetry that were beautifully bound and in fairly good condition. He brought them to the till, where the young woman was reading a thick book with a colorful cover.

“Find something good?” she said, looking up as Aziraphale approached.

“I did, actually,” he said, setting the books on the counter. “You have a wonderful selection, I must say. I look forward to coming back some other time.” 

“I’ll let the owner know that you approve,” she said, with a wink. “Are you new in town?” 

“Yes. Very new, in fact,” said Aziraphale. “My...partner and I just moved here from London. I was eager to scope out the local bookshop, and it did not disappoint.” 

“Well, I hope you like it here,” said the young woman. “Fifteen pounds.” 

As Aziraphale left the shop, he raised his hand to leave a blessing on the building and some good fortune for the young woman. He caught himself at the last moment, remembering that he was trying not to use miracles. He stood in the doorway, arguing with himself about whether it would be safe to leave a blessing, just a small one. Maybe something so insignificant (in Heaven’s estimation) would go unnoticed. After all, they hadn’t done anything about the wards on his shop. But perhaps blessings were different, perhaps they would set off different alarms.

Seething at his own cowardice, Aziraphale lowered his hand and hurried away from the shop, angry tears welling up in his eyes. He found Crowley on the street outside the coffee shop, laden with a surprising amount of shopping bags. He was sipping from a cardboard cup and smirking to himself. 

“Ready to go home?” said Aziraphale, plastering a smile on his face. 

“Er. You’re not gonna…?” Crowley trailed off and jerked his head back toward the coffee shop. “You notice anything in there?” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale caught sight of a very particular brand of chaos unfolding inside the shop. Baristas were shouting, trying to keep the peace as customers crowded up to the counter. 

“Yeah, I didn’t even use any demonic miracles,” Crowley continued. “Just a well-placed whisper in the ear of the right barista and...angel, is something wrong?” 

Aziraphale took a long, shuddering breath. “I’d like to go home now. Er, back to the cottage, rather.” 

“Of course,” said Crowley, the grin gone from his face. “Yeah, of course. Let’s go.” 

It was a mercifully short walk to the Bentley, and Aziraphale was glad the drive back would be short as well. Once they’d returned to the cottage, he could shut himself in the snug and let this pass. But Crowley didn’t start up the car right away. Instead he turned sideways in his seat to face Aziraphale, eyebrows drawn together in concern over his sunglasses.

“No luck in the bookshop?” he asked.

“Hmm?” said Aziraphale. “Oh, no, it was lovely. A very nice young woman works there.” 

“That’s good. Sounds nice.”

Crowley stayed quiet, and Aziraphale knew what he was doing. Long ago, when they’d still been enemies (of a sort), Crowley would use this tactic to get information about Heaven’s movements. He knew that Aziraphale couldn’t resist filling a silence, and Aziraphale knew that he knew, but he still fell for it every time. Now, try as he might, he couldn’t stand the deafening quiet that filled the tight quarters of the car. 

“I wanted to bless her, and the shop,” he said, eventually. “I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I stood there in the doorway, trying to force myself to just...do it. But I’m too afraid, Crowley. I don’t want them to find me, to find us. I thought that I could do as I like now, that I could help humanity in my own way without worrying about Heaven. But how can I help them if I’m stuck in hiding?”

Still, Crowley said nothing. Then he took a deep breath, settled his hands on the steering wheel, and started up the Bentley. “Let’s go to the beach, angel. See that water up close.” 

Crowley didn’t move the car until Aziraphale nodded and said, “Yes. Yes, all right.” 

The drive toward the sea was longer than the drive into town. Aziraphale rolled down the window of the Bentley to feel the cool breeze on his face and clear his head. Beside him, Crowley sat quietly, his jaw set in determination. Aziraphale watched as the afternoon sun lit up his red hair, the breeze ruffling it away from his face. With Crowley watching the road for once, Aziraphale was free to stare, and he took great advantage of the moment. 

By the time they arrived, Aziraphale felt less panicked. He saw the sea, and the beach, and the towering white cliffs before Crowley had even parked the car. Crowley opened the door for him and Aziraphale hauled himself out of the passenger seat, following the demon’s long stride.

The sea drew closer as they made their way toward the cliffs, until it was laid out before them in all its majesty. Clouds rolled in across the water, but pockets of sunlight appeared now and then to sparkle on the surface of the sea. Aziraphale put a hand up to shield his eyes as he gazed out toward the horizon, straining to see as far as he possibly could. He felt lighter than he had in a long time as he stood there, marveling at the beautiful construction of the earth. This water, he knew, carried on all the way to France, and he had a sudden, absurd urge to get his wings out and fly there.

“Is it what you imagined?” Crowley asked. “Or, what you remembered?”

Aziraphale nodded. “It’s even better.”

“We should come again and do the beach, do it properly,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale stole a glance at the demon, his slouching form silhouetted against the graying sky beyond. He couldn’t imagine him stripped down to a bathing suit, sunning himself on the sand, but he thought it would be something to see. 

“Are you quite sure? With that complexion of yours?” he said, teasingly.

“You’re one to talk,” scoffed Crowley. “Mister Blonde and Fair.” 

“I don’t know how well you remember ancient Greece, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “But I actually bronze quite nicely.” 

Crowley scowled. “Oh, yeah. Never worked out how that happened.”

“Something to do with angelic grace, to be sure.” 

“Surely.” 

When Aziraphale glanced at him this time, he felt the urge to get his wings out again. It seemed appropriate somehow, with the two of them standing at a great height above the earth, side by side as they always had been. 

“It’s a bit like standing on the wall, in Eden,” he said. 

Crowley turned to him now with a sideways smile. “A bit, yeah. Lot’s changed, though.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, though privately he wasn’t so sure. It was true that they’d experienced a lot since then, and it could be argued that they were not the same angel and demon who’d stood there as Adam and Eve made their way out into the world. But Aziraphale felt he could still stand to put some distance between his past self and the self that stood looking out at the sea now. 

He wasn’t sure if it was the salt breeze blowing up toward them, or perhaps the set of Crowley’s mouth as he looked out past the cliff’s edge, but something made Aziraphale decide to widen that distance then and there. With a deep, fortifying breath of sea air, Aziraphale stepped closer to Crowley and took his hand. The demon flinched and looked at him, surprised, but then relaxed into it when he saw the smile on Aziraphale’s face. 

“Thank you for bringing me here,” he said. “It was just what I needed.”

********

Aziraphale was different after Crowley took him to the sea. When they’d first arrived at the cottage, the angel had been just as wound up as he’d been in London. In town, when he’d got so distressed over the bookshop, Crowley had panicked and offered a change of scenery. He wasn’t sure what magic the sea had worked on the angel that day, but he was grateful for it. Though he was still insistent on steering clear of miracles, Aziraphale seemed lighter than before. He still spent time in his snug, but he left the door open and opened his window when Crowley was working in the garden. He’d even abandoned his waistcoat for a cozy jumper that Crowley hadn’t seen him wear since the 1970s.

This, of course, was a challenge because the jumper made Aziraphale look tantalizingly embraceable. And after the angel had held his hand at the beach, it seemed more possible than ever that Crowley might actually get to embrace him. But he’d decided to wait for more signals, to follow Aziraphale’s lead. Clearly he was still settling into their new life, and Crowley didn’t want to rush things along and risk ruining it all. For now it was enough to see him in the kitchen, in his jumper, reading as he waited for the kettle to boil. 

Crowley could see the angel from his greenhouse, and he was watching him when he heard the first rumble of thunder. He jumped and dropped his plant mister, instantly feeling like a fool. Seconds later the rain began in earnest. 

It was ridiculous for a demon to feel uneasy about thunder and lightning. It was even more ridiculous if that demon had spent a large portion of his existence in a very rainy country. Yet the fact remained that Crowley was not fond of a rainstorm, and he felt an absurd fear well up in his chest as he stood in the greenhouse, heavy drops pelting the glass roof above him. He glanced up at the house and saw Aziraphale preparing two cups of tea. 

Wishing more than ever that he could text the angel, Crowley kept staring in toward the kitchen, hoping that Aziraphale would sense him somehow and look up. Eventually he did, and Crowley gestured wildly at the rain around him. Aziraphale squinted toward him, then nodded, held up one finger and left the kitchen. He soon returned with a large white umbrella.

If it was ridiculous for a demon to be afraid of a rainstorm, it was even more ridiculous for him to be rescued by an angel with an umbrella that resembled his own wings. Crowley instantly thought of what Aziraphale had said when they’d stood on the cliffs days earlier, that it was a bit like Eden. This felt like history repeating itself, with the angel offering shelter from the rain. Crowley tried not to think about it too closely, about how far they’d come and about what might never change between them. 

“Hello,” said Aziraphale, as he swung open the greenhouse door. “Need some help?” 

“Looks that way,” said Crowley, suddenly self-conscious about how sweaty he was. His hair was a mess, and he probably had dirt on his face. 

“Well, come along,” said Aziraphale, beckoning him forward. “No sense in standing out here any longer. I’ve made us some tea.” 

“Right, thanks,” said Crowley. He ducked his head and huddled in next to Aziraphale.

“Perhaps you should keep an umbrella out here, in case of something like this.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind. _Jesus!_ ” As another clap of thunder roared above them, Crowley reached out for Aziraphale’s arm on instinct, clutching at him perhaps a bit too desperately. He let go quickly as the thunder dissipated. “Er. Sorry.” 

“Not to worry, dear,” said Aziraphale. When Crowley glanced up, he saw that the angel was blushing slightly. Crowley filed that away to ruminate on when he was less jumpy.

The storm raged on into the evening, much to Crowley’s dismay, until he was tempted to shift into his snake form and hide between the cushions of the sofa. Or, he thought, he could slither up between Aziraphale’s skin and that soft jumper. The angel was sitting at the opposite end of the sofa, seemingly engrossed in a book. Trying to relax and banish all thoughts of Aziraphale’s skin, Crowley took a deep breath and stared down at his phone, at a Reddit thread about the Loch Ness Monster. 

“Are you quite all right, my dear?” said Aziraphale, rather suddenly.

“Hmm?” said Crowley, glancing up from his phone, thumbnail caught between his teeth. 

“Only you keep jumping with each clap of thunder,” said Aziraphale. He’d put his book down and was peering at Crowley over his spectacles. 

Crowley shrugged, putting all his energy into making it seem nonchalant. But just then a vast rumble of thunder unfurled across the sky and startled Crowley so much that he nearly rocketed upward through the roof. His phone flew out of his hand and hit the floor with a dull _thump._ As the thunder dissipated, Crowley found that he couldn’t stop himself from trembling just a bit in its wake, and he hoped it wasn’t noticeable. 

“Think I’ll just head to bed, then,” he said, bending to retrieve his phone from the floor.

“Are you sure? Is there anything I can do?” 

“No reason to do anything, because nothing’s wrong,” said Crowley. He hoped his voice didn’t sound as shaky as it felt. “Just keep reading. I’m fine.” 

The thunder and rain was so much louder in the country than it had been in London, and each rumble was deafening in the bedroom. There was more wind too, buffeting against the walls of the cottage, which suddenly seemed far less substantial than they actually were. Crowley wrapped himself in the duvet, wishing he’d brought his own from the Mayfair flat, and tried to block it out. If he could just ignore it all and fall asleep, he’d be fine. Yes, he’d never met a problem he couldn’t solve with sleep.

All at once, he was in the bookshop, surrounded by fire. Crowley spun on his heel, frantically scanning the rubble and wreckage for any sign of Aziraphale. Though the angel was nowhere to be seen, Crowley was convinced he could hear him calling for help, wailing with pain. The fire was too powerful, there was nothing to be done. Crowley sunk to the floor and buried his face in his hands, struggling to breathe amidst the smoke, feeling as though he might vibrate right out of his skin with panic. And then he actually could hear Aziraphale, somewhere off in the distance.

“Shh, it’s all right. I’m here, Crowley, I’ve got you.” 

Crowley’s eyes snapped open. Though he could feel Aziraphale’s hands on him, he was half convinced this was a dream within a dream, something soothing designed to pull him away from his familiar nightmare. Then a bright blaze of lightning lit up the room, swiftly followed by a clap of thunder, and he knew he was awake. When he jumped at the thunder, Aziraphale let go of him, springing backward as though he’d been shocked.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Oh, fuck. Sorry, angel. _Fuck._ ”

“Crowley, what’s wrong?” said Aziraphale, his voice thick with concern. 

“Please don’t laugh,” he said. “‘M’not really a fan of storms.” 

“Oh, good Lord. Is that all?” Crowley could see the angel’s shoulders relax. “Were you dreaming about the storm as well?” 

“Not exactly,” said Crowley, just barely resisting the urge to burrow back under the duvet. He was very aware of the fact that he was not wearing a shirt. Or trousers. One small pair of pants was all he had to shield himself, and Aziraphale was safe beneath his customary layers. The imbalance just didn’t seem fair. 

“Oh?” said Aziraphale. He shifted on the bed, his hands fidgeting like always. 

“Nah,” said Crowley, running both hands over his face. “It was the bookshop. On fire.”

If Aziraphale were simply lit by the bare moonlight coming in through the window, Crowley might be able to deal with this. But his eyes were made to see through the dark, so he caught every bit of sadness that passed over the angel’s face. He instantly regretted telling him, knew it was one of those things he should have kept to himself. He opened his mouth to apologize, to tell Aziraphale that he could go back to his reading now. But he never got the words out; instead he found himself folded up into Aziraphale’s arms, his chin tucked over the angel’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” he said. 

The hug didn’t last nearly as long as Crowley would have liked. Aziraphale gave him a good squeeze and then hurriedly backed off, kneeling on the bed with his hands pressed to his thighs. 

“‘S’not your fault,” said Crowley. Maybe if he spoke, he thought, they could move on from it quickly. If they moved on from it, he wouldn’t need to examine how good the hug had felt or how much more he wanted to touch Aziraphale. 

“Of course it is,” said Aziraphale. “I’m the fool who stepped into the transportation portal. I’m the one who left you to...to discover that dreadful scene on your own.”

Crowley sighed. “Well. I mean. Yeah, that’s true. But don’t put that on yourself, angel. Besides, it’s not your fault I can’t just get over it.” 

“It’s rather a hard thing to get over, I should think.”

“Well.”

“Seeing the shop in such ruins. I shudder to think.”

Crowley started a response and then Aziraphale’s words fully sunk in. He frowned, “That’s not...I wasn’t upset about the shop.”

Watching the realization dawn on Aziraphale’s face was like watching the sun come up after a very long night. But then, just as soon as it had appeared, it was gone. Aziraphale looked away, and Crowley had to resist the urge to touch his chin, to make the angel meet his gaze again. But if Aziraphale didn’t even want to acknowledge what Crowley’s declaration might mean, he probably wasn’t ready for that. 

“You probably want to get back to sleep,” said Aziraphale.

“Enh,” said Crowley, with a shrug. “Suppose I should. Not sure how much sleeping I can get done with this racket.” 

“Quite so.”

Aziraphale glanced back at the window, which was lit up just then by another flash of lightning. Crowley shut his eyes against the impending roll of thunder, all his molecules tensing as it split the sky above the cottage. Maybe, he thought, he could shift into his snake form once Aziraphale left and huddle underneath one of the plush pillows.

“Do you want me to stay?” 

At first, Crowley thought he must have misheard him. But Aziraphale was looking at him with something like a tentative, frightened hope written all over his face. Crowley thought his own expression was likely more fear than anything else, but he blinked and hoped he didn’t look too much like a deer in the headlights. 

“If you want. If you wouldn’t mind. I mean, sure.” 

“Only I thought it might help,” Aziraphale explained. Crowley could see the glint of his signet ring as he twisted it around his finger nervously. “I’ve read it somewhere, I’m sure. Sometimes the presence of another being can be comforting. Humans do it all the time, I think.” 

Crowley tried very hard not to smirk at him. It wouldn’t do at all to mock the angel just now, even if it was done in fondness. But he suddenly wished he’d had the stones to reach out moments before, wondering if it might have led to something more. He admonished himself for his greediness, remembering that Aziraphale had agreed to share a cottage with him, and that he’d held his hand at the beach. It was all being done out of order, but who’d created that order anyway?

“They do, yeah,” he said. “And I do think it would help. If you really don’t mind.” 

“Not at all, my dear,” said Aziraphale, relaxing a bit. “It would be my pleasure, if it helps you get some rest.” 

There had been many moments over the previous weeks when Crowley had wanted to use a miracle. It actually took quite a bit of effort not to use them; they were simply second nature. But this was by far his greatest challenge. He would have dearly liked to conjure himself up some pyjamas. As it was, he flopped down onto his pillows and pulled the duvet up to his neck, making a show of snuggling in to cover up his embarrassment at being shockingly unclothed. He shut his eyes and tried to shift into sleep mode.

Then Crowley cracked open one eye, and there was Aziraphale, still kneeling on the bed, hands folded neatly in his lap. “Hey, er, could you maybe not sit there like an angel of the Lord?” 

“Hmm? Oh! Oh, yes, of course.” 

Aziraphale shifted and stretched himself out beside Crowley, lying on his back, stiff as a board, hands clasped over his belly. It was still a bit creepy, if Crowley was being honest, but now he could smell Aziraphale’s cologne. The smell might get trapped in the pillows, in the duvet, and Crowley might still be able to catch a whiff days later.

Crowley didn’t remember falling asleep, but the first thing he noticed upon waking was how close Aziraphale was now lying to him. The second thing he noticed was a soft pressure on his arm, followed closely by the sound of deep, even breathing. Moving very slowly, as though trying not to startle an animal, Crowley turned his head. Aziraphale’s face was about two inches from his own, and the angel had his eyes closed, his mouth hanging open ever so slightly. He was _sleeping_ , of all things. And he appeared to be holding on to Crowley’s arm. 

To Crowley’s knowledge, Aziraphale had never slept. Presumably he had, at least once, maybe, but Crowley had certainly never seen it. Now that he was literally face to face with it, he took a moment to admire the way Aziraphale’s face relaxed in slumber. It was different from how relaxed he got when they shared multiple bottles of wine in one evening. It was quite human, actually, and it made Crowley’s heart ache. Aziraphale’s eyelashes were surprisingly long, and his breath smelled of cocoa. Crowley realized these were details he would only have known if they’d been this close before. Of course, they hadn’t.

When Aziraphale stirred, Crowley quickly shut his eyes again, not wanting to get caught staring. He kept them closed until he heard Aziraphale mumble something and felt him let go of his arm. Then he opened them slowly, as though he too were just waking up. Beside him, Aziraphale was sitting up, rubbing at his eyes and glancing around the room in confusion. 

“Good Lord,” he said. “Was I asleep?” 

“Seems that way,” said Crowley. “What’s the verdict? Any good?” 

“I...I’m not sure,” said Aziraphale. He laid his hands on his chest, patting down his waistcoat as though he were feeling for a difference in himself. “I suppose I feel rested.” 

“That’s a good sign,” said Crowley, with a half smile. “Could be a retirement project -- sleeping. Just think of it.” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Aziraphale. His hands wound together, fingers back to twisting that damned ring. Then he pointed toward the window, “The storm seems to have passed, at least. Did you sleep well?” 

Crowley ran his fingers through his hair a few times. “Y’know, I did. Thanks for, er, for staying with me.” 

“Of course, dear. Not to worry.” 

“Could do it again,” said Crowley, the words coming out mostly as a mumble. “Wouldn’t have to sleep every time. You could sit here and read. Maybe.” 

Aziraphale glanced down at him, and this time he didn’t look away. His eyes were wide with a disbelief that made Crowley’s chest hurt -- did he find it surprising that Crowley would want to spend time with him in this way? How did he not know, after all this time? Crowley tried to strip himself down, peel himself back as best he could to show the angel that he really did mean it. 

“That would be nice,” said Aziraphale, finally. “Shall I go and make us some tea?” 

“Sure, angel,” said Crowley.

As soon as Aziraphale left the room, Crowley splayed out his arms and legs in a very good imitation of a starfish and sighed heavily at the ceiling. This was a step forward, but he was just barely stopping himself from running to the finish line. Aziraphale had been right, all those years ago, about his fast car and all his flash. But now he had nothing but time in which to try, and the very least he could do was try, so he thought about what the next step might be. 

Eventually he settled on an idea and hauled himself up out of bed to get dressed. Doing so was a harder task these days, as skinny jeans were a trial and a half without miracles at one’s disposal. Crowley honestly had no idea how the humans managed it. Once he’d squeezed himself into the things and shimmied into a loose black t-shirt, he headed down to the kitchen. As he approached, he could hear Aziraphale humming some tuneless tune to himself

“Perhaps we could pop into town to find a bakery,” he said, when Crowley sauntered in. “When you stop using miracles, you realize just how often you used to conjure up breakfast pastries. Good Lord, perhaps I was rather frivolous.” 

“Perish the thought,” said Crowley, with a smirk. “I’m sure we could hunt down some pastries, even some suited to your refined palate.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I’m not picky, I just have standards. Anything with heaps of butter will do.”

“Well, there you are. I’ll ask around about butter content.” Crowley leaned against the counter and watched Aziraphale pour hot water into two mugs. He was getting the hang of brewing tea the human way after a few bitter batches dumped down the sink. “Would you like to see the greenhouse?” 

Aziraphale jumped and spilled a bit of water on the countertop. “Really?” 

Crowley hadn’t been keeping it a secret, not necessarily. He simply hadn’t felt ready to show Aziraphale the fruits of his labor. After all, it was still early days, and he couldn’t tell if his scoldings held the same sway without demonic power behind them. He hadn’t touched the wider garden yet; he wanted to get the greenhouse just right first. There was still a lot of work to be done, but he thought it might be nice to show Aziraphale his progress. 

“C’mon,” said Crowley, and he held out his hand. It was a gamble -- he didn’t want to fluster Aziraphale, and he was terrified that the angel would simply brush past him without a thought. But instead he blushed and blinked at him for a moment. Then he set down the kettle and slid his hand into Crowley’s, just as he’d done at the beach. 

Summoning all the strength he had to remain calm, Crowley led Aziraphale into the garden, to the corner where his greenhouse stood. It wasn’t very large, and it grew sweltering with heat in the afternoon, but it was something Crowley had often thought about in his London flat. He probably could have conjured up a greenhouse there and kept it miraculously warm. But something about that hadn’t felt right. Besides, it wouldn’t have matched his aesthetic.

Aziraphale’s reaction -- a hushed gasp and fingers tightening around his own -- was everything he might have hoped for if he thought a moment like this would ever come. At first Aziraphale stayed by his side, taking in the greenhouse from their vantage point near the door. Then he untangled his fingers from Crowley’s and wandered through the greenery, bending down to take a closer look at the smaller plants, laying gentle fingers on leaves here and there. After a short while, Crowley realized he was no longer vibrating with nerves. In fact, he felt downright relaxed.

Once he’d made a full circuit of the greenhouse, carefully inspecting everything Crowley had thrown his heart into, Aziraphale returned to him. He was practically glowing, and Crowley briefly wondered whether Heaven could home in on angelic happiness.

“It’s absolutely lovely,” said Aziraphale. “It feels like everything that was good about Eden.”

Crowley smiled at him. “There were some very good things in Eden. One thing in particular.” 

“Ah, yes, of course,” said Aziraphale, twisting his ring. “The site of your best bit of mischief, eh? Your first bit of mischief, really.”

Crowley shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.” 

Aziraphale stared at him for an uncomfortably long time, and Crowley could practically see the thoughts unspooling in his head. Surely this, combined with what he’d said the night before, was enough. Surely now Aziraphale understood, without him having to say the bloody, blessed words. They’d spent so many years buried somewhere between his ribs that he wasn’t sure he could dislodge them. But in the past month or so, at least since failed armageddon, it had felt more possible.

Suddenly Aziraphale stepped toward him, and Crowley took a step back on instinct. The angel pursed his lips at him and shook his head a bit. “My dear. Would you like to see my library?”

“I’ve seen it plenty. Haven’t I?” said Crowley, surprised by the question. 

“You haven’t seen it here, in our cottage.” 

_Our cottage._ The words shook his ribcage, loosening things up a bit more. He cleared his throat; this wasn’t the moment. “Guess you’re right. Yeah, go on.”

Aziraphale offered his hand, a mirror of the invitation Crowley had given him in the kitchen. Crowley took it without hesitation, allowing himself to be led out of the greenhouse, through the garden, and back into the house. The door to the little area off the sitting room was closed, and Aziraphale made quite the ceremony of taking the doorknob in his free hand, glancing back at Crowley, and letting them both inside. 

Crowley wasn’t sure how he’d managed it, but Aziraphale had recreated the vibe of the bookshop in London -- with some important improvements. The snug came equipped with several large, built-in bookshelves made of a stately dark wood. Aziraphale had transferred most of his books from their boxes to these shelves. But still some books remained unshelved, stacked in ready-to-topple piles on the rug he’d brought from the shop’s office. There was a window seat and a fireplace -- two features that Crowley could imagine lending a coziness to the space in winter. 

Of course, the most important thing of all was the old sofa. So many spilled glasses of wine had been miracled away from that sofa. On more than one occasion, Crowley had been too drunk to remember how to sober up, and Aziraphale had let him sleep there. Sometimes on those nights, Crowley would wake in the early hours with his mouth feeling disgusting, and he would catch sight of Aziraphale reading at his desk. He usually had his halo out, limiting the light to his personal space, keeping the room dark so Crowley could sleep.

“Brilliant,” said Crowley, grinning as he took it all in. “It’s so different, but it’s a little bit the same. Does that make sense? That doesn’t make sense.” 

“No, I know what you mean,” said Aziraphale. He was standing by the fireplace, hands behind his back. “It’ll never be the same, of course. But I think it’s the same in all the right ways.” 

Crowley nodded to him, and he felt those unsaid words creeping up his throat again. Was he imagining the way Aziraphale looked at him, the way his eyes shone? His imagination had been a boon to his work, but he often thought it was his undoing when it came to Aziraphale. It made him see things that couldn’t possibly be there, longing glances and expressions of pure contentment. Unleashing those unsaid words could make things clear at long last, but what if they simply made it clear that Crowley really had been imagining things? 

“Are you all right, dear?” 

“Er, yeah. Yes,” said Crowley, who realized he’d probably been staring like a weirdo. “Sorry.” 

Aziraphale shifted from one foot to the other, watching Crowley intently. Then he took a deep breath, “Would you still like that tea?” 

It was a long day, and Crowley spent most of it feeling as jumpy as he had during the storm. Once he’d finished brewing their tea, Aziraphale sat at the dining room table with his book, one leg crossed primly over the other. Crowley hovered in the kitchen taking nervous sips of his too-hot tea until he gave in and sat with him. That lasted about five minutes, though, because he couldn’t get comfortable in the wooden chair and Aziraphale seemed so calm that it made him more antsy. Eventually he murmured something about his plants and fled to the greenhouse.

Aziraphale popped his head into the greenhouse around dinnertime and suggested that they eat in town. So Crowley found himself in an infuriatingly charming pub, watching Aziraphale swoon over a large roast dinner. Crowley confused the waiter by ordering only a Yorkshire pudding and a glass of ale, and he tried to remain calm as Aziraphale moaned in ecstasy about the potatoes. 

On the way back home, Crowley left Aziraphale in the Bentley while he dashed into the high street bakery. When he returned with a bag of danishes, chocolate croissants, and apple turnovers, Aziraphale gave him a smile that made his heart turn over in his chest. Dinner at the pub and a gift of pastries -- if they were people, just two regular humans, they might call this a ‘date night.’ Crowley tried not to think about that as he drove back to the cottage, pedal flush against the floor so the journey took about five minutes. 

“That was wonderful,” said Aziraphale, as they stepped back into the cozy, quiet bubble of the cottage. “Thank you for indulging me, my dear.” 

“It was worth it just to see the look on that waiter’s face,” said Crowley. 

“Yes, yes, we’re all impressed with your continued mischief,” said Aziraphale. 

In the kitchen, Aziraphale placed his bag of pastries in the refrigerator to keep them fresh. And then he turned to Crowley, hands all twisted together in front of him. Crowley blinked at him, aware of just how quiet the cottage was at night, of how blue Aziraphale’s eyes looked in the low light. He glanced at Aziraphale’s mouth, those plush pink lips that had so recently savored a good meal, and longed to kiss him. That’s how a normal date night might end. 

“I suppose you’re heading to bed now?” said Aziraphale.

Crowley mumbled a mish-mash of letters and shrugged. “Suppose so.” 

Aziraphale nodded and kept wringing his hands. He appeared to be working himself up to something, and Crowley didn’t have to wonder what it was for very long. “Might I join you?”

“Ngk,” said Crowley, followed by an audible gulp. It took him a few seconds, but he did manage to regain the power of speech. “Yeah, sure. Absolutely.” 

“You said I could, you’re the one who suggested it.”

“And I meant it. Just sort of...caught me off guard.” 

“Ah, I see,” said Aziraphale, though he looked a bit confused. 

“Yup...just. Yup.”

“Very well. I’ll find something to read,” said Aziraphale. “I’m not sure I fancy sleeping again, but the bed was quite comfortable.” 

“Yeah. Very comfortable. I’ll just...I’ll be up there.” 

Aziraphale nodded to him and pottered off to search his library. Crowley ran a hand through his hair and then made his way upstairs. Sleeping in just his pants was absolutely not an option, but Crowley found himself in the same dilemma Aziraphale had with regard to breakfast pastries. He’d spent centuries simply miracling up any old clothing he might like to wear, and so he didn’t have oodles of pyjama options from which to choose. Not knowing how much time he had before Aziraphale showed up, Crowley settled on his pants and an old t-shirt. Then he buried himself beneath the duvet and waited.

A few moments later, Aziraphale strolled in with a book under his arm and his spectacles already perched on his nose. He was clad in a set of flannel tartan pyjamas, and Crowley didn’t even try not to stare. The jumper had been torturous enough, but seeing Aziraphale in pyjamas was a whole new level of temptation. As soon as the angel climbed into bed beside him, staying outside the duvet, Crowley wanted to pull him close to feel the warmth and softness of him. Aziraphale turned to fluff up his pillows and startled when he noticed Crowley staring.

“Where did you get those?” Crowley asked. 

“Hmm? Oh, ages ago. It’s important to have a nice, comfortable set of pyjamas. I was delighted to find that they come in tartan patterns.”

Crowley blinked. “You don’t sleep. Why would you need pyjamas?”

“One never knows,” said Aziraphale, wiggling a bit to settle in against his pillow. 

Crowley tried to puzzle that one out but gave up quite quickly. “Right. Well. Off to sleep, then. Happy reading.”

“Happy sleeping,” said Aziraphale, with a soft chuckle. “Pleasant dreams, that is.” 

“Mrmph,” said Crowley, as he pulled the duvet up to his neck and burrowed his face into his pillow. 

For the first time in a very long time (not counting countryside thunderstorms), Crowley found that he could not get to sleep. He’d never had a problem dropping off in London. Even when he’d been worried about the Antichrist, he’d managed to worry himself into exhaustion. Now, with Aziraphale mere inches away from him, his body couldn’t seem to relax into sleep. He tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable spot, aware of how much he must be disturbing Aziraphale. 

He ended up on his side, facing away from Aziraphale, with the duvet pulled up nearly over his head. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to breathe deeply, tried to tell his body that everything was fine. Then he felt a hand on his back and he couldn’t breathe at all. The hand moved gently, this way and that, up and down his spine. After the initial shock, Crowley felt the tension easing from his tired muscles, and a soft sigh fell unbidden from his lips. 

“Is this all right?” said Aziraphale, from somewhere outside Crowley’s duvet cocoon. 

Crowley was very glad he had his back to the angel just then, because he was certain that his face had turned bright red. He managed to squeak out, “Yeah. S’nice.” 

Aziraphale hummed happily and kept up the gentle motion along Crowley’s back. Crowley didn’t want to move an inch, lest he cause the angel to stop, but he wished he could see him just then. With his eyes shut, in the dark under the duvet, he could imagine the little spectacles on his nose and the little smile that he always had as he read. Crowley knew what he looked like, he’d memorized every inch of Aziraphale’s face in the brief moments he’d dared to stare over the millennia. But he never got tired of looking, and he always hoped one day to gaze at him outright, without embarrassment or fear. 

The soothing motion of Aziraphale’s hand did the trick, and soon Crowley felt himself drifting off. He couldn’t be sure, it was probably his traitorous imagination again, but he thought he heard Aziraphale say, “Sleep well, and dream about whatever you like best, dear.”

********

Aziraphale had always enjoyed the wee hours of the morning. There was something rather special about being awake when no one else was. Back in his shop, this had meant freedom from all potential customers, including the pesky ones who knocked on his door even when the sign clearly stated that he was closed. Sometimes it had also meant sneaking glances at Crowley as he slept on the sofa in the back room, too drunk to go home. In the weeks after a failed armageddon, the wee hours had been dedicated to keeping something of a vigil over Crowley. Angels, after all, were meant to be at the ready at all times. Aziraphale, after all, had been a guardian all those years ago.

Suddenly the wee hours of the morning meant so much more. It had been nearly two weeks since the thunderstorm, and Crowley’s nightmare. Since then, Aziraphale had followed Crowley into bed each night without fail. 

“You don’t have to keep asking,” Crowley had said, on the fourth night. “Just. You’ve got a blanket invitation, all right? Pun intended.”

Aziraphale had smiled at the joke. “Very well. As long as you don’t mind.” 

“No, it’s…” Crowley had trailed off into vowels and consonants with no order. “I shouldn’t have been hogging the only bed anyway. Right?”

“I have to admit it’s quite comfortable for reading,” said Aziraphale. 

“Good. That’s good, it’s...I want...you should enjoy it, too. Only fair.” 

Though he never said it outright, Crowley seemed to like having his back rubbed to get to sleep. After the first week, he’d even lowered the duvet enough so that Aziraphale could touch the soft, worn fabric of his t-shirt. It was a closeness they’d never had before, and it was thrilling. In fact, everything about being this close to Crowley was so thrilling that Aziraphale wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if he’d wanted to. Why would he sleep through the gentle rise and fall of Crowley’s chest, the peaceful look on his face, and the way he mumbled unintelligible things?

The nightmare returned on one or two occasions, and at first Aziraphale didn’t know what to do. He’d shushed Crowley and tried to wake him up, but nothing worked. So Aziraphale had put down his book and turned onto his side, facing Crowley. Hesitantly, worried that he was overstepping their boundaries, he’d reached out to touch Crowley’s cheek. Crowley stilled instantly, leaning into the touch even though he was still asleep. Aziraphale stroked his cheekbone with his thumb, murmuring reassurances, until Crowley began to snore contentedly. 

“Did you...have that bad dream again last night?” Aziraphale asked him, later that day. 

Crowley frowned, trying to remember. “Not sure. How come?” 

“No reason,” said Aziraphale, ducking into the refrigerator to hide his flushed cheeks. “You know, if it would help, you could sleep a bit...closer to me.” 

The kitchen was quiet for so long that Aziraphale was forced to come out from the fridge, just to see if Crowley was still there. He was, standing at the island countertop with a dazed expression on his face. He opened and closed his mouth a few times until he managed to speak. 

“How close?”

Aziraphale twisted his signet ring. Now he was definitely blushing, his face felt unbearably hot and he considered turning around to hide in the icebox instead of answering. But eventually he said, “As close as you’d like. Y-you needn’t be embarrassed. You could even touch me, I wouldn’t mind.” 

Crowley’s mouth fell open, and Aziraphale thought he might run away to hide in the greenhouse. He wouldn’t have blamed him; Aziraphale had never been this forward before. Honestly, he couldn’t imagine what had got into him. The only explanation for it was that afternoon they’d spent at the sea. Ever since that day, Aziraphale had been taking chances -- checking on Crowley the night of the storm, showing him the library, inviting him out for dinner at the pub. Each new thing had only served to make him feel better, so he’d kept on pushing further. Now, he thought, he might have gone too far.

“Are you sure?” Crowley said, at last, his voice a bit strangled. 

“Positive,” said Aziraphale. “After all, we’ve held hands now. I wouldn’t be averse to a bit of...a bit of snuggling.”

“ _Snuggling?_ ” Crowley squeaked. “Who taught you about snuggling?” 

“Oh, come now, I’m no naif,” said Aziraphale. Though his face still felt red, he pressed on. “If you’d rather not, you can just say so. But consider this my own blanket invitation, as it were.” 

Crowley simply stood there and gawked at him. Aziraphale waited for a response, but when none seemed forthcoming he bustled away to his library. He stayed there for the rest of the afternoon, mildly terrified that he’d said too much and scared Crowley off. Eventually, he saw him through the window, meandering about the garden and dipping in and out of the greenhouse. He seemed just as agitated as Aziraphale felt, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. 

That night, Aziraphale made his way to bed first, and he was already settled when Crowley came up from the garden. There was dirt streaked across the back of his neck, and he was visibly sweaty. Aziraphale watched as he stepped toward the en suite, doubled back as though he wanted to say something, and then disappeared inside. The shower turned on moments later, and Aziraphale tried to concentrate on his book. 

Any hope of continuing to read flew straight out the window when the shower switched off and Crowley emerged in nothing but a towel. Aziraphale stared -- he couldn’t help himself with that much pale, lightly freckled skin on display. Crowley stood in front of the bureau, which happened to be positioned right in front of the bed, and considered his clothing for a distressingly long time. He plucked out a few black items and sauntered back into the en suite, hips swinging. When he came back out again, he was wearing the same thing he’d worn every night so far. 

“Did you have a good day in the garden?” Aziraphale asked him, keeping his gaze trained on the pages in front of him. The book might have been upside down and he wouldn’t have noticed. 

“Just getting the lay of the land,” said Crowley as he climbed into bed. “Think it’s time to start a bit of a renovation.” 

“Oh? What do you have planned?”

“I’ll reserve space for some veg,” said Crowley. “Then -- nothing but flowers.” 

“Ah, that sounds lovely.” 

“Never done flowers before.” Crowley shifted slowly toward him on the bed as he spoke. “Marigolds, zinnias, forget-me-nots...maybe roses.” 

“Oh, yes, please,” said Aziraphale, turning to find him much closer than he’d expected. “Roses would be very nice, indeed.” 

Crowley smiled, a little half-curl of his lips. “Right, I’ll do roses.”

Aziraphale nodded and turned back to his book, assuming that Crowley wanted to make his move a bit sneakily. Soon he felt long arms envelop him, one snaking in between his back and the pillows, the other sliding over the swell of his belly. The rest of Crowley followed, his head coming to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder. They sat like that for a moment or two, Aziraphale suddenly very conscious of his breathing with the slight weight of Crowley’s arm against his diaphragm. Crowley sighed softly, and Aziraphale felt an ache in his chest. 

“Are you sure about this?” said Crowley. “Let me know if it’s too much.”

Aziraphale glanced down at him, the smell of apple shampoo wafting up from that flame red hair. “I’m sure. I’m so, so sure.” 

Crowley looked up to hold his gaze, unblinking, and then pushed himself up so they were face to face. Aziraphale took care not to flinch, to remain steadfast in the twin beams of Crowley’s warm, inviting eyes. He thought he knew what was coming, and it was something he’d been dreaming about since Eden, since he’d brought his wing out to shelter Crowley from the rain. It had been a very long journey, indeed. That made it all the more satisfying when Crowley leaned forward and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s.

The first kiss was brief, as though Crowley were merely testing it out, to see what Aziraphale would do in response. When he pulled back, Aziraphale reached out to cup his jaw, rubbed his thumb against his snake tattoo and watched as his gaze softened. Then he leaned in to kiss him back, longer this time, with his hand trailing down to rest against Crowley’s chest. He felt the demon’s heart beating, a rapid _thump-thump_ that didn’t really need to be there. But Aziraphale relished the feel of it, the reminder that Crowley was here, whole, and alive. 

They pulled apart again and Crowley climbed fully into Aziraphale’s lap, legs bracketing his and bony bum pressed into his thighs. Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale and leaned into him, head coming to rest on his shoulder again. Overcome by this closeness, Aziraphale felt a lump in his throat as he hugged him back, arms tight around Crowley’s thin frame. For perhaps the first time in his long existence, Aziraphale felt at peace. The weight of Crowley’s body grounded him, and the feel of Crowley’s hot breath against his neck was so wonderfully intimate. 

It was simply a hug, a gift that humans gave to each other on a daily basis. But it felt like the culmination of a long life spent waiting for exactly this, and it felt like the beginning of something bright and new. It felt like standing on those cliffs, staring out at the expanse of the sea. 

“My dear,” he said, unable to keep his voice from trembling. “I love you so very much.”

Crowley’s breath caught, a barely restrained sob. “I love you too, angel. Always have.” 

They stayed like that for a long time, pressed up close against each other until Crowley murmured that he was tired. He unwound himself from Aziraphale, and Aziraphale guided him gently onto the bed. Once Crowley had made himself comfortable, Aziraphale scooted close to him and pulled the duvet up over them both. Crowley smiled as he fell asleep, snuggling into Aziraphale’s embrace.

********

_Eight months later_

The day had started off rather gray, but by noon the clouds had rolled away to reveal a brilliant blue sky. The sun shone as it so rarely did in England, and two ethereal (or occult) beings intended to make the most of it. 

“Angel,” Crowley called from the landing. “If you take any longer, the summer will be gone.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Aziraphale called back, because he knew it irritated him. 

Crowley paced in front of the door to their bedroom, which remained resolutely closed for ten more minutes. At long last, it swung open to reveal Aziraphale in the most ridiculous swimming costume that Crowley had ever seen. It was straight out of the roaring twenties -- a snug pair of shorts and a woolen tank top that hung down over them. Crowley’s gaze was inevitably drawn to Aziraphale’s bare arms and the dimples of his knees, and he felt his face grow red.

“I know it’s old-fashioned,” said Aziraphale. “But it’s the only swimming costume I ever had cause to purchase.”

“Remind me again why you bought this?” 

Aziraphale sighed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, you can blame F. Scott Fitzgerald. It’s a terribly long story, my dear, and I believe you wanted to get to the beach before sundown.” 

“Well, now, hang on, this story might be worth missing it.” 

“Come along,” said Aziraphale, smirking and nudging him toward the stairs. 

They’d been back to the beach many times, but each time they returned Aziraphale was reminded of their first visit. He’d been all coiled up inside then, still worried about Heaven (or Hell) hunting them down in their new locale. Neither side had come looking for them yet, but the threat had seemed imminent in those weeks after armageddon. The journey from that day to this one, when he walked down the beach hand-in-hand with Crowley, had been wonderful at times and difficult at others. Building a new life with Crowley was a joy, but sometimes the old fears and worries crept in. 

Sometimes he got nervous in pubs, of all places, and became convinced that all the humans sat around them were actually angels waiting to pounce. Some nights he found it impossible to concentrate on his book, as he was too fixated on watching their bedroom window for any sign of a missive from Heaven. Whenever and wherever Aziraphale’s old mindset returned, Crowley was there to reassure him of their safety or simply snuggle him on the sofa to help him feel grounded again. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how he’d ever managed without Crowley nearby at all times. How had they possibly passed entire decades and centuries apart? 

In the shadow of the towering white cliffs, Aziraphale and Crowley found the perfect spot to plant their large, striped umbrella. Crowley peeled off his skinny jeans to reveal a pair of tight, black swim trunks. Aziraphale watched as the demon stripped off his t-shirt next, shaking out the hair he’d begun to grow long again. Crowley stretched his lithe frame and then bent down to help Aziraphale spread out their beach blanket. 

“What have you brought today?” Crowley asked as Aziraphale pulled a slim volume from his canvas bag. 

“Well, appropriately enough, _The Sea, The Sea_ , by Iris Murdoch,” said Aziraphale, showing off the cover. “It’s about a man who retires from London to the seaside. But his life isn’t nearly as peaceful as ours, I’m afraid.” 

“No one’s is, angel,” said Crowley, with a smile. 

After that night, when Crowley had finally shaken those important words from the depths of his chest, he’d strode out into the garden and started making changes. Within a week, any trace of what the former owners had planted was gone. He made it in time to plant some pumpkins and a few clusters of mums, but then winter had set in. As soon as he was convinced their mornings of frost were over, he’d planted a flurry of flowers and some spring veg. He could survey his hard work from the bedroom window, and he often did while waiting for Aziraphale to choose his nightly reading. 

Aziraphale was better at saying the words on a regular basis. After all his reticence and hand-wringing, they now fell from his lips for everything from Crowley dashing out to the greenhouse to goodnight kisses. For this Crowley was grateful, because the words were still difficult for him, and they came much more easily if Aziraphale said them first. 

With the sea stretched out in front of them, and not a cloud in the sky, Aziraphale settled in to read and Crowley spread himself out on the blanket. He still had his boots on, determined to avoid sand between his toes. With his eyes shut, feeling pleasantly drowsy in the sun, Crowley inched closer to Aziraphale and reached out to take his hand. Aziraphale threaded his fingers in between Crowley’s and squeezed. 

An indeterminate amount of time passed while Crowley dozed. Eventually he came to with a start as an exuberant child ran past their patch of sand, shouting something about seagulls. Crowley looked up to find Aziraphale staring out at the sea rather than down at his book. 

“You gonna leave me for the sea?” he said. 

“Don’t be absurd,” said Aziraphale, squeezing his hand again. “What I have with the sea is a mere dalliance. I may spend time with the sea, but I’ll always come home to you.” 

“Right, I know you’re joking, but I’m a bit jealous of the sea now.” 

“You’ve only yourself to blame, my dear. You’re the one who brought us together, after all.” 

“Bugger,” said Crowley. “Yet another one that’s come ‘round to bite me in the ass.” 

Aziraphale chuckled and leaned down to kiss him softly. Then he sat up with his book propped up on his knees. The sea was a perfect, clear blue that day, stretching out to far beyond Aziraphale’s field of vision. While it was true that Crowley had brought him to the sea, Aziraphale thought the opposite was just as true -- the sea had brought him to Crowley.

After a moment or two, Aziraphale closed his book and laid down beside Crowley. He brought their joined hands to his lips, and then guided Crowley’s hand to his chest, covering it with his own. Anyone walking by would have seen two man-shaped beings who appeared to be very much in love and very much at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @truncated-symphony on tumblr, come hang out!


End file.
